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‘And Millie,’ said the headmaster. ‘I wonder if now is the time to announce to the school that just as we have a Head Boy, we also have a Head Girl.’

Millie blinked. ‘What?’

‘Yes, we’ve done a lot of planning over the holidays, and as a staff, we went into this very carefully. You are Ribblestrop’s Head Girl.’

Sam started to clap and very soon the applause was deafening.

‘But I’m the
only
girl,’ said Millie.

‘We think that you and Sanchez will provide the necessary leadership. We could think of no better role models.’ He stood to shake her hand and pressed a small enamel badge into her
hand.

‘What am I supposed to do?’ said Millie. ‘I’m not sure about this—’

‘All ready to go,’ said Captain Routon, taking the parcel gently from her.

‘Let’s not waste time!’ cried the headmaster. ‘Sanchez cannot be with us for a little while yet. He is visiting his mother, who died recently, due to . . . circumstances
beyond her control. However, I think you will agree when you see his message, that we have a very special term ahead of us. Thank you, Captain!’

Captain Routon pressed the switches and the lights dimmed.

The children huddled forward as a great white beam flashed upon the wall. A complicated set of lenses and bulbs meant that the image was projected huge, and the children were bolt upright,
peering hopefully as white dissolved into a million specks of black and grey. Suddenly, it was blue. And then, as if he was there in the room by magic, a face three metres high flickered into life.
Andreas Emilio Sanchez was smiling at his friends, and the children burst as one into yet another volley of unstoppable cheering. The camera was close up and their friend looked radiant and
healthy. Clear skin, shining eyes, oiled hair.

He started to speak, but of course the words were lost amongst the howling of the waving children. Routon had to pause the movie and shout for quiet.

‘Hi,’ said Sanchez, at last. He was a softly-spoken boy and there was now a hush as the congregation listened. ‘I’m really sorry I’m late back, guys. I’m
looking forward to seeing you again, obviously. Hi, Millie! Hi, Sam, Ruskin – hope your brother’s with you – and hi, Tomaz, and hi, Asilah, Israel, Sanjay, Anjoli, Henry, Podma,
Eric . . .’

He went through all the names.

Captain Routon stopped the projector again, because some of the younger orphans were up against the screen, running their hands over Sanchez’s chin.

Millie’s eyes were moist and she looked from her friend to the little badge in her hand and back again, deeply confused. When the film started again, the camera pulled back – and
again, a hush fell. Sanchez was normally seen in his school clothes, like everyone else. It was a shock to see that he was wearing something very different, and as the children took in what his
costume was, several mouths fell open.

The room was silent.

Sanchez was wearing football kit. He wore a striped football shirt and the stripes were black and gold. The shorts were black with a golden bar down each thigh. The socks were black with three
golden bands. He even had black-and-gold wristbands. He shone like a young golden god.

‘Millie and I designed this kit,’ said Sanchez. ‘She promised she wouldn’t tell, so I hope she didn’t – well, I know she wouldn’t, because one thing I
know is Millie doesn’t break a promise. So . . . I hope you like it. My father made a load of them, so . . .’ Sanchez looked off-camera and laughed at something. ‘We’re
going to have a proper strip now, all of us. All different sizes, no problem, and the boots and the footballs . . . everything we need. It’s all in a box and I’m bringing it with me. In
time for our first game!’

The audience was in pain. To keep silent after announcements like these was physical torture, and there was groaning. Sam was on his feet.

‘More important than that . . . I need to introduce you to a friend of mine.’

The shot changed to a panorama of a warm, sandy beach. The camera wobbled and then it zoomed in on Sanchez again. He was still in his football kit, limping towards the camera with a football
under his arm.

‘There’re a lot of kids in Colombia who don’t have much,’ he said. ‘You know what I mean – don’t have
anything
, is what I mean. Street kids and
that – so if you’re a girl or a boy, all you dream about is making it big. Football is a big business out here. Everyone knows the story: if you get seen – if you get selected
– you can be the richest boy in Colombia.’ The camera was closing in on Sanchez’s face. ‘There’re boys on this beach, which is where I live, who play football with me.
They’re the best footballers I ever saw. And there’s one guy . . .’

The screen went black.

Many of the children were standing now, with clenched fists. They knew by instinct that something even more special was about to happen. Sam was rigid.

The screen lit up again, muddy yellow this time. It was hard to work out what you were supposed to focus on: it looked like the sand. The camera moved and a bent Coke can came into view. The
camera drew back and there was a small, brown foot. A girl’s voice – Millie’s voice – said, quietly, ‘OK, dimwit, go.’

The foot got under the can and with a flick of the toes rolled it up to shin height. With the instep, the can was passed up onto the knee, where it bounced three times. The camera drew back
further, and Sam saw a long-haired boy of eight or nine years. He was wearing tatty shorts and nothing else. He was concentrating only on the can: it went from knee to knee, to foot to head to
shoulder to knee. The kid spun round and caught it with his heel, knocked it up to his shoulder again, fed it back to the head and knocked it higher and higher, jumping now to get the can two, then
three metres, up off his head. He brought it down to his knee, raised it up and suddenly – just as you’d got used to the momentum – he flung himself on the ground, slashing in an
overhead kick. The can came at you like a missile, your hands flew to your face. It struck the camera lens and the film jarred for a moment. Then it was back on the boy’s feet and this time
he was dribbling a football. Sam wiped his eyes quickly: this was ball-control as he’d dreamed of it.

The boy’s feet leaped and hopped, blurred in the air, and the football zig-zagged as if it was alive. Alive, but on a wire, it scribbled in the air, those feet conducting it upwards and
sideways. It was gone; it was there; it was still; it was snatched away in a blur of brown legs. Sanchez was trying to tackle the boy, but stood no chance. There was laughter, there was wrestling,
but still the magic feet kept the ball and kept it moving.

‘No . . .’ breathed Sam. He had to close his eyes: the light was too bright. He was in the lion’s mouth again.

Sanchez returned and by this time the whole audience was pressing close to the screen in stunned silence. Sanchez was sitting on a wall and the footballing boy was sitting next to him. Both wore
the bright, wasp colours of the new Ribblestrop kit. The little footballer looked self-conscious, smiling at his toes, peeping at the camera.

‘This is Imagio,’ said Sanchez, putting his arm round the boy.

Imagio grinned and said, ‘Hul-lo,’ shyly.

‘And this is the surprise. I hope it’s OK if I say it? My father phoned our headmaster a little time ago, OK? He asked if Imagio could come to the school, ‘cause he
doesn’t go to school out here.’

‘Yes,’ whispered the children.

‘And we were told,
yes
. So . . . we got Imagio a blazer. And he’s been having English lessons and he’s really good – aren’t you?’

Imagio had covered his face with his hands.

‘So we want you guys to be good and train hard. I mean, we are the best school, so that’s not a problem. But we are going to have the best football team as well in the whole
country!’

The children couldn’t contain themselves any more: Anjoli was yelling and jumping up and down; Israel was simply screaming, ‘Yes! Yes!’ over and over again.

As if he knew, Sanchez spoke up. His voice was loud, his gaze firm: ‘A few days, OK? I know we got a lot on, with nature study and stuff. But, Captain – you keep two places for us,
yes? This term is gonna be . . .’ The noise was deafening. ‘The best!’ were his final words, but nobody heard them. Imagio waved self-consciously and then, as if he could stand
the formality no longer, he put a hand over his friend’s mouth and threw himself backwards off the wall. Sanchez disappeared in a flurry of legs.

The movie finished.

‘By remarkable coincidence,’ said the headmaster, once he’d got silence, ‘the High School coach telephoned me this afternoon.’ He unfolded a paper carefully and
cleared his throat. ‘First game of the season. Tuesday, three weeks hence, at eleven o’clock in the morning. Here at Ribblestrop.’

‘Quiet . . .’ said Routon.

‘We have a lot to do this term! Boys! Listen! Stay where you are!’

There was no stopping them, though. Every child moved as one and the headmaster found that he was no longer standing on the podium. He was in a forest of hands, and those hands were lifting him
higher and carrying him. The school song rose again, the voices soaring. No choir could have matched that passion. It was a wonder the roof stayed on. There were harmonies. There were soaring
descants. Every voice was trumpeting:

The new term had started.

Ribblestrop’s Inspector of Police, Percy Cuthbertson, had recently been promoted. According to the official report, he had shown
exceptional courage in an undercover
situation
. He had saved the day and been sung as a hero. A number of important people – for reasons far too complicated to go into here – had worked together to protect him from the
suggestion that he was, in fact, corrupt, dangerous, and motivated only by personal greed. He was now the county’s Deputy Chief Constable. He had been given a new uniform, with bright buttons
and extra-large epaulettes, and he had a fine office on the ninth floor of city headquarters. He had his own coffee machine, his own sofa, and mint-edition copies of
Policeman’s
Weekly
. He had a personal assistant in a sub-office outside who didn’t mind calling him Deputy Chief Constable every time she spoke.

When you consider these triumphs, you might assume that D.C.C. Cuthbertson’s interest in Ribblestrop Towers would now be at an end. You might have thought that it would hold only painful
and embarrassing memories, and that he’d avoid the place.

You’d have been wrong.

D.C.C. Cuthbertson had, for a long time, known things about the school that he hoped would make him wealthy. He’d been researching its secrets for more than a year, noting the rumours and
filing reports. If Ribblestrop Towers was the honey-pot, then D.C.C. Cuthbertson was the desperate, dangerous wasp that would never stop circling it. Soon, he hoped to make another move.

It was unfortunate that the officer had so little to do, and that his new title was simply a way of keeping him idle. He had time to imagine all kinds of revenge for the humiliations he’d
received, and he would sometimes sit at his desk smiling at the wall for ten or twelve minutes at a time. He’d refused to give up his old office at Ribblestrop Police Station, insisting that
one day he might need it again. As he was the only one with keys, there wasn’t much his underlings could do.

On this particular Thursday morning, he was in private conference. He sat with his elbows on the desk, and in front of him, just as hunched – nursing chapped, swollen hands – sat an
elderly man disguised as a priest: Father O’Hanrahan. The two men had known each other for many years – policeman and convict.

‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ growled Cuthbertson.

‘Then it might have been nice to receive warning,’ said the man opposite.

‘What I mean is,
nothing
surprises me. I’m not saying I predicted exactly what they’d do to you. There is nothing about that school or the fool who runs it that could
ever surprise me again. I learned the hard—’

‘I have also learned the hard way!’ said Father O’Hanrahan.

Cuthbertson smiled. ‘My wife put her finger on it,’ he said. ‘She said, “You underestimated them, Percy,” and she was right. But I tell you something else: they had
luck on their side and that’s going to turn. You know about this?’ He waved some documents. ‘Came in yesterday – a full report from Taunton. Black-and-gold blazers in a
Travellers’ Sleepeasy – before the night’s out, the place is on fire. An articulated lorry carving up the traffic, smashing up a roadside cafeteria – and what’s at the
wheel? A black-and-gold blazer. Vandalism, intimidation, and carnage. I tell you what: they’re on borrowed time.’

‘Why aren’t you arresting them, then? They’re living it up at school thinking they’ve got away with it!’

‘Ah, but it’s not my patch. All that happened in Somerset.’ Cuthbertson leaned further forward and lowered his voice. ‘But it’s all going into that safe,’ he
whispered. ‘Every shred of evidence I get, I put it in the file. I lock it up at night and I tell you something – that headmaster’s got a shock coming. Every crime, every mistake,
every accident he has . . . When I get him, it won’t be for a traffic violation. It will be for the whole catalogue! That school will close and he’ll do ten to fifteen years. I know
prison officers and that man will suffer.’

‘I can’t believe the school is still open. From what I’ve seen in the last few days, all they do is have parties.’

‘You’ll see a lot more yet.’

‘You could close it today, man! There’s no discipline, no care. I don’t believe they’re even qualified to teach! And the zoo animals!’

‘Give them the rope – they’ll hang themselves.’

‘But if you closed them down
now
, it would make the job so much easier! We could get people in, turn the place upside down—’

‘Oh no, no! Listen. If that school closes, you won’t have any business on the premises, will you? The only reason you’re in there is because you have a job to do. No school, no
chaplain. If the old woman died, it would be a different story, but—’